


Emerald Eyes

by MissFo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, Lyrium, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Cullen Rutherford, POV Female Character, Secret Admirer, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:00:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFo/pseuds/MissFo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the very first moment Cullen knew. He didn't know how, but he knew. She was innocent. She was a gift from Andraste. She was the leader they needed. She would change his life. </p><p>But will he lose the opportunity before he ever has a chance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so much for stopping by. Just a couple things I wanted to touch on before I really got started. First of all, this is my first piece of fiction in almost five years, but I wanted so desperately to get back into writing. Please be gentle on me. Second, this piece is being written mostly for my enjoyment. So with that in mind I intend for this to be a delicate blend of canon and non. And I wholeheartedly intend to recreate some (only a few) of my favorite scenes. But I promise not to get too carried away. With that in mind, let's get started!

From the first moment her emerald eyes fell upon his, he knew. No words existed to describe the sensation that filled him to his very core. All the world fell apart. Trees crumbled to sand, mountains blew on the winds, rivers rained into the sky, and stars twinkled beneath his feet. In his soul he knew he’d remember this day for the rest of his life and he knew, his heart would never be the same after this. 

Cullen had learned to listen to his instinct—his Templar training demanded it. The span of a heartbeat was too small to make decisions, that often times meant his life or death. You had to trust your hand knew where to swing, and when to hold. 

There was no way that Seeker Pentaghast was right, the woman before him had nothing to do with the death of the Divine, he saw it in her eyes.

He saw fear.

And confusion.

And loss.

She was covered in blood, though he did not rightly know how much of it was hers. He wanted to reach out to her. But that was absurd. Regardless of her guilt or innocence, she is a prisoner of the Inquisition.

“Maker watch over you, for all our sakes.”


	2. Chapter one

Cullen sat in the dark, one candle barely enough to see his hands by. She hadn’t moved, not once in the days she had laid there; a statue in all but breath. 

Who are you? 

The Inquisition held its breath as the days passed. They were calling her Herald now, no longer a prisoner but a beacon of hope. 

On this particularly dark night he could see it. Candlelight glistened off her sweat damp skin like starlight in the night. Her silver hair a halo beneath her. The magic in her hand radiating electric tension on the air. It would be easy to believe she came from Andraste’s side when she fell through the rift. A messenger from ages long dead. 

He wanted to reach out to her. He wanted to dry the damp on her forehead. He wanted to brush the pale strands from her face. He wanted to feel the mark beneath his fingers. 

Who are you?

Rather than obey these impulses, Cullen reached for the journal containing Adan’s notes. He understood little of what was written but he was able to gather that she—like the rift—was stable. The mark had stopped expanding after her victory at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But even so, they didn’t know why she still slept. Or how deep her slumber was. Adan had made notes that day of a conversation he’d had with Solas.

“…he seems to understand the magic involved here far better than I ever could…”

“…her soul is piecing itself back together around the mark…”

“…Solas is uncertain of how long that could take…”

“Makers breath” Cullen sighed weakly. He’d only dared steal away in the smallest hours of the night, when all prying eyes had retired. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he kept coming. The first night he’d come just as Adan was leaving her side, bandaged but whole. It had only been natural then. He was curious, everyone was curious of the woman who’d become the Herald. Adan had been in typically poor spirits that night, “Playing mother hen” he’d said. Self proclaimed "no good at answering questions" and often angering the patrons more than he’d helped. Even so, his spirits lightened when Cullen had offered to buy a drink for his troubles. 

“It’ll in no way chase ‘way the nosing hens, but I can think of worse ways to spend an evening.” He’d rumbled with a glisten of a smile. His mind momentarily drifting to what Cullen had assumed was pleasurable company within the Singing Maiden.

Passing a copper Cullen bid him goodnight, “I’m just here to gather notes for the official report.” 

“Whatever you need Commander. Mine are on the desk, help yourself.” For a moment Cullen wondered if he’d suspected? Such a flimsy cover. Cassandra’s report was certain to have been enough. 

Once alone, the thought left him. He did read Adan’s notes. Nightly. And the information he read did actually turn up in Josephine’s official report each day. Though, admittedly, he had no idea who compiled the information. Nor did he really care. 

Each night he’d come, ponder over her state, and then leave feeling more confused with himself than he had the night before. 

Who are you?

Evelyn Trevelyan, only daughter of Bann Gerard Trevelyan of Ostwick. Sent to the Conclave to assist as an ambassador of her house. She was to be but one voice of many. Leliana’s report stated that she wasn’t even the intended participant. Her brother being first in line, had fallen from his horse the day prior, and was unable to make the journey. 

The name Trevelyan wasn’t even entirely unknown to Cullen, who was certain he’d served with some distant cousin at least once in his career as a Templar. 

But there was something more. Some piece of information he was trying to find on his nightly journeys. Something he couldn’t find on any report anywhere.

“Who are you?” he asked the empty night, little more than a whisper. 

How could he be surprised when he’d been met with silence? He pressed his knuckles to his eyes. Makers breath, what was he doing here? He ought to retire for the evening, like everyone else in the company. With an indulgent sigh, he pulled himself from his seat. She was in no danger, and being one of the chief advisers to the Inquisition, he would know the instant she awoke. 

He would retire. And so he did. Three nights ago he’d decided that if anyone noticed him leave, he’d claim it was his nightly duties on watch that claimed his time. People rarely stopped him though, and if they did, they never questioned his whereabouts; one of the perks of being Chief Commander. Regardless—he decided—considering his rank, he really should use his time more honorably. 

Once last glance was all he allowed himself before parting into the breaking dawn. 

She still hadn’t moved, save the slow shallow breaths, and the quiet sizzling of her mark. 

Who are you?

* * *

Sun poured through a crack in the window, hot and unforgiving on her face. “Wake up” it said. Do not ignore me. Wake up the sun is up. Wake up it is morning. Wake up. It's Sunday, kitchen would have prepared griddle cakes. If you hurry they won’t make you wait. They’d let you indulge with some boiled strawberries. Wake up. If you don’t beat father there’ll be no strawberries left. Wake up. The birds call to you. Wake up. The sun is on your face. Wake up.

As she stirred she heard footsteps in her room. She must be late if someone has come to check on her. Had she perhaps slept in as late as her dancing lessons? Her instructor would punish her if she were late.

Wake up.

Evelyn opened her eyes against the unforgiving rays pouring through the window. But this was not her room. She remembered now. She was at Haven. She was at the Conclave. She had survived though no one knew how. She was a prisoner, for the murder of Divine Justinia.

“Lady Herald! I didn’t realize you were awake.” The girl's voice was less than a whisper through the fog of her throbbing head.

How did she get here? The last thing she remembered was facing a demon before sealing the rift.

A second peal of pain shuddered through her. In her were two waring bodies of pain. The first sat in her head; dull yet unrelenting. The second sat a hot coal in her hand. Almost too hot to recognize where she ended and it began. 

“Water,” croaked an entirely unrecognizable voice “Water”. How long had she been asleep?

The frail elf girl scrambled to her feet. If Evelyn had to guess, she'd fallen. “Lady Cassandra told me to send the Herald at once. ‘As soon as she awakes’ she says”

“What—”

“At once she said” and just like that, she ran; without ever even offering her name.

What in Andreste’s name had happened when she slept?

Healer Adan—though he apparently resented being called healer—arrived shortly after. Before Evelyn had even had a chance to gather her bearings. With him came three others: Varric, one face she was only vaguely familiar with, though whose name could not recall, and one other whom she’d never met.

The former was stiff, lined with the burden of responsibility, and scarred from battles unknown. She’d pulled his name from the sludge that was her mind, Commander Cullen. 

The later was his opposite in every way. Slender, elegant, with cascading black hair and a thick accent, which could only come from one place.

“How you doin’ kid?” Varric was the first to speak, passing her a glass of water before she had a chance to ask.

Grateful, she downed it, reaching for his hand to pull herself to her feet. Her body was stiff, bruises turning green decorated her skin.

“Easy kid, don’t go too fast, you’ve been out nearly a week. Gotta regain your sea-legs”

“What happened?” The water had been a miracle, returning her voice to some of its natural state.

“Not an easy question.” Varric admitted. “The work at the Breach didn’t stop it as we’d hoped, but it did stop growing, same with that thing on your hand. It appears, for a time at least, that everything is stable. In a weird, ‘the world is ending’ sort of way.” They had made a couple passes around the room; each step bringing strength back to her weary legs. “The good news, you are officially no longer a prisoner. They’re calling you The Herald of Andraste after what happened.”

“They are?” 

“Oh yeah, some mighty big shoes to fill if you ask me.” A pause while he helped her to a chair, “Don’t push yourself too far. We need you in one piece.”

“Lady Trevelyan, if I may. I’d like to introduce myself. I am Josephine Montilyet, ambassador and chief diplomat of the inquisition. I hate to trouble you so soon, but there are some items of importance we need to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you for reading.
> 
> Also: I just finished trespasser. Probably the most beautiful epilogue I've ever seen. Excuse me while I go cry.


	3. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is better? A beautiful dream or a cold reality?

The “Inquisition” wasn’t technically “The Inquisition” until later that evening. But by then all involved parties had been properly informed.

Accepting her unofficial title as Herald, Lady Trevelyan was to officially be the Mouthpiece of Andraste—considering that the Chantry had very publicly renounced them, the inquisition needed her as proof that Andraste was on their side. Lady Josephine—who Evelyn had just met—was to be the Chief Diplomat. She’d explained that she had been doing this sort of thing for a long time, and not to worry. Finally, Cullen was to be the Military’s tactical commander. Likewise, Josephine had explained about Cullen’s extensive military background with the Templars. “Without his presence, no one will take us seriously.”

She went on to explain that even though Cassandra and Leliana were to be the spearheads of the movement, most of the decisions would be made by them three, the advisors, and so it was of the, “utmost importance that we collaborate. We must stand united.”

“You see, if we can’t stand together, how do we expect to rally anyone behind us."

 

She had a musical voice. So rich it seemed to originate from the deepest parts her chest, resonating until it came to rest as a purr in the depths of her throat. "That must be our first priority. Without support The Inquisition will never be more than a band of rebels.” Punctuating with a short chortle, she apparently found humor in some inside joke no one else in the room understood. “Forgive me, I’ve gone for far too long. As I’ve said earlier, I will convene with Leliana and Cassandra. Keep an eye out, I’ll send a messenger when we are ready to meet as a whole.” It was with a curt nod and not a second glance that she strode from the room, her writing board in hand.

“Is she always so pleasant?”

Varric laughed, a deep throaty rasp, “You’ll find she’s the most pleasant of your companions. Just doesn’t know how to have fun. How you feeling kid?” She was feeling better that’s for sure. Her body was stiff, and it ached, but she felt life returning to her limbs. Right now, all she needed was to get out, and to walk around. They’d been locked in that room from the moment she’d woken, and it was now well into the evening. She was starving and in desperate need of some air.

“I’ve been better. Though I really should eat something.”

“Come on, let’s—”

“Varric, do you mind if I take it from here?” Without warning Cullen slid his hand underneath her elbow, lifting some of the weight from her heavy limbs. Until then Evelyn had almost completely forgotten that Cullen was in the room. He’d been so silent the whole meeting. “I thought I’d show her around, introduce her to some of the soldiers. Plus, I know how much you enjoy crowds.”

“Sure thing Curly. Just get her home safe.”

Evelyn barely had time for one questioning glance. 

The Commander laughed quietly, “Never mind him, Varric is full of stories.”

She had not been prepared for what greeted her outside. The world exploded into a glowing furnace just outside her door. White hot, everything glowed around her until her eyes watered mercilessly. A deafening roar filled her ears. Why was it so bright? Blinking back the pain she tried to focus on anything around her. Trees, there were trees capped in white, branches bowing heavily. Had it snowed? After that she saw the cabins near her were also covered in a blanket. The ground crunched beneath her feet and the air was bitter cold. It had most certainly snowed. She could now see the way it glittered around her, burning sharp holes in her vision.

People, there were people here. She could see them now, countless people gathered around them. It was a sea, none of them quite distinguishable from the next. Evelyn clung to the hand wrapped securely around her arm, wrapping her fingers around theirs afraid she would fall.

As her senses slowly returned she noticed clapping, and cheering, and calling.

“…that’s her, that’s the Herald…”

“…Andraste bless us…”

“…Herald…”

A barking order came from next to her, his voice filled with authority, “Alright everyone, back up. Give her some space.”

Miraculously everyone did back up, all but a few stragglers remained. But one stern glance was all it took for even the most reluctant to part ways. It wasn’t until everyone had gone, and the alley was empty that she was able to breathe again. Even then her breaths tore at her throat.

She was gasping now, the harder she tried to regain her breath, the more it burned her esophagus.

“Are you alright?” he all but whispered. His hands were on her again, anchoring her to reality. Evelyn closed her eyes against the world around her searching for a kernel of peace within her.

"Yeah..." She finally managed weakly. Betraying her, her knees collapsed from under her. Instead of snow, she was met with strong arms. Too strong. Keeping her from falling, but iron against her bruises might be making it worse. "Just overwhelmed." She swallowed hard and inhaled. He smelled of hay and warm campfires. 

“You have a right to be, you’ve been asleep for days.”

Without pressing the matter, he began to guide her down the path, “Over all how’re you feeling? It’s been an extraordinary few days.”

A bitter chuckle passed her lips, “Well, I’ve gone from Noble ambassador to house Trevelyan, to prisoner held for the murder of the most holy, and now I’m an advisor to the Inquisition. I can still feel my head is spinning.”

Cullen came back to their table with two hot bowls of soup in hand, a smile on his lips, “My first night here was so cold, you could still see your breath when the door was closed. No fire was warm enough to chase off the frost. If it wasn’t for Flissa, and a warm bowl of soup, I would have frozen.”

She met him with a grateful smile. They'd found a small table, pushed all the way in the corner. If she kept her head down, no one in here even realized who she was. If anyone did recognize her, having Cullen as a personal bodyguard helped. At least for now she was just one more refugee.

Through the bowl the broth warmed her icy fingers, “How about you, how did you come here?”

He took casual swig from his mug, “To be honest Cassandra recruited me.”

“Did you know her?”

“Eh, just in passing. When the circle fell she offered me a position with the Inquisition. It wasn’t the inquisition yet. She told me about the work Divine Justinia was doing. She believed I had something Justinia could use. Seeing as there was nothing left for me in Kirkwall…”

“Nothing?”

He shook his head, “Being a Templar was all I knew. At least this way I can put my training to use.”

“What was it like?”

He looked at her curiously, his voice soft, “was what like?”

“Being a Templar. You are all so mysterious. Scary.” She took a drink of broth, and he laughed.

"Scary? Am I scary? Is that what you think of me?" With laughter in his eyes and a smile like the sun, it was impossible to find anyone who would think him intimidating.

"Well, no. But some of the scariest people I've ever known were templars." She remembered once--when she was a girl--her elder brother Knoll joined the Templars. She'd woken at dawn with him and waited. When the knights arrived, she'd been shocked to find them fully armed, helmets on. Their visors had been drawn--shielding their eyes and obscuring their voices. Evelyn cried on her mother's skirts when they thanked her parents for their noble contribution, and rode off with her brother. 

She'd had nightmares for a week. 

"To be honest we have to. It's for everyone’s safety."

She met his sad stare with questions.

"We have to." He thought to himself for a moment, "It's about control. We must control the way people see us. In order to feel safe people need to know that we can manage anything and everything that could happen. One crack in that surface and people start questioning our ability to lead them."

He paused as she drank from her soup, "It's like this: you're from a noble family, aren't you?" She nodded. "So, you had rules about how to behave in public, things you were and weren't allowed to do?"

She nodded again.

"So, were you allowed to play in the puddles with the other children when you went to town?"

"Absolutely not," she answered automatically. He saw understanding flash on her face as she continued, "It's not fair but we must be more." The words were even and rehearsed; a mantra she'd heard a hundred times.

He could see on her face, she knew a thing or two about responsibility and station. 

“I’d wanted to be a Templar for as long as I could remember. When I was eight I told my family, though they didn’t entirely believe me.”

Time passed quickly around them, but inside their table it stood still. Nothing more than the slowly emptying glasses and bowls to count the hours. Before she knew what had happened they were the only ones left.

"Just like that?" laughter tore at her aching body, shaking her until she was clenching her arms around her.

"I swear, if I'd had lunch it would have been all over my commander's boot."

"So tell me," she wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye, "Do Templars take vows? 'I swear to the maker', that sort of thing?"

"Well there's a vigil first, and then your first Philter. Sometime in there the vow takes hold of you, honestly you have little choice. But if you've made it thus far, who is going to walk away?"

"A life of service and sacrifice. Are Templars also expected to give up..." a raspberry blush flooded her already ale-pink cheeks. "...physical temptations?"

Cullen almost choked on his drink, "Physical? Why would... No, that's not expected. You can marry, but there are rules. You must petition your Knight-Commander. It's all very—unromantic. Some choose to give up  _more_  to prove their devotion. But it's not required."

Evelyn was biting at her lip, too far into the conversation to give up now, "Have you?"

"Me? I uh—" fire burned inside his chest and he took another uneasy drink of his ale, praying to the Andraste to give him strength.  _Makers breath, she’s only being friendly._ But one look at her. Eyes as bright as a fresh spring rain, looking at him with a devious spark. She knew exactly what she was doing. Even still, she was embarrassed, he could tell by the way she chewed her bottom lip mercilessly, and the way she held to her mug like it was a solitary raft keeping her from drowning.

An unspoken _no_ was on his lips when Flissa came unwittingly to his rescue.

“I’m sorry Herald—Commander—it’s late.”

“Makers breath, I’m sorry. I had no idea.” He pulled some copper pieces and placed them in her hand, “the food was wonderful. I'm sorry for keeping you.”

* * *

Outside Evelyn immediately missed the warmth of the fire. Rain was coming down in heavy, icy sheets. Each drop hitting her hood like a pebble.

She shouldn’t have stayed out so late. The warm meal had brought life back into her, but now she was just tired. Her body ached and her limbs felt heavy, protesting each step. Her head swam with ale and sleep. But worst of all, her mark burned like she was gripping a hot coal. Would it always hurt like this? The idea made her stomach threaten to turn out dinner. How could she face days, weeks… years? Of this kind of pain. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. Desperately she squeezed it tight against her body, trying in any way to find relief.

“Are you cold?” His voice cut through her obtrusive thoughts.

“It’s just my hand—” a strangled sob sat unacknowledged in the back of her throat.

Without hesitation he guided them both to the nearest awning. Leaving little room between them he took her bare hands palm up between in his leather clad ones. Her mark cast a ghostly green aura between them.

She had gentle hands. A distinct sign of her class as a nobleman’s daughter. Countless hours of quillwork and water-dancing defined her long fingers. Even still, not a callous dared mark her milky skin. Her mother made sure of that. Scrubbing each night with a coarse paste to erase the leather marks. Some nights her hands were left so raw she thought they’d bleed. But her mother… she would touch them kindly, rub a sweet-smelling oil into the skin, and she’d smile. “My beautiful girl” she’d say.

What would her mother think of her hands now that they were permanently scared?

"Here," he brought a gloved finger and bit into the leather, "Wear these, I know they won't fit, but it'll help, like a brace."

As he slid the supple leather over her skin, the residual heat inside the glove banished all the chill from her body. She could tell the gloves had been well loved, worn as a second skin in countless untold battles. On her however they were loose, but full of comfort. As the second glove settled over her sizzling mark, an instant calm washed over her. Instead of burning the leather somehow contained the magic. She could still feel the pin-and-needles, but at least the electricity between them had subsided.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a "new chapter" but I was stuck on how to continue in the direction I wanted. So I did some lengthy rewrites and re-posted. With any luck I should have another chapter in a couple days. As always, thanks for reading this far.


	4. Chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She engulfed him like a second skin, who was he to refuse.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Varric exclaimed.

A laugh ripped through Cullen, “Pay up dwarf. She won fair and square.”

“She cheated! There’s no way Cassandra let her win.”

“Don’t let Seeker Pentaghast hear you say that, she’ll have you skinned and your hide tanned for her tent.”

The dwarf let out a displeased grunt before passing a few silver coins his way and retreating since the spar was over. Normally Cullen wasn’t a gambling man. In fact, his record was almost spotless, but when Varric had started going on about how it was the Herald’s first day in the ring—against Cassandra no less—and how the Herald had an appointment to ‘eat dust’ he couldn’t help himself, if nothing else than to ruffle Varric’s tailfeathers.

No one had seen her fight yet, but he’d remembered something from the day she awoke: back at home she was recognized as a Master Water-Dancer. Which he’d learned had little to do with dancing. It was a time-honored tradition among the noble families of Ostwick, each generation would name one—and only one—master from their family.

Even though she had spent weeks mending, he knew she wouldn’t lose; the bet was almost too easy.

All eyes were on her, she did incredible. True Cassandra was the best this company had to offer, it was never a good day when you got paired with her—but Evelyn was savage. It was easy to see why they’d been called water-dancers. Every step was a perfectly fluid movement to the next. Where one of her dual blades hit, it was purely to open a weakness for her other to strike. She _was_ a dancer, perfectly poised on the balls of her feet each muscle and movement a prayer to something larger than herself.

“He’s watching you” Cassandra’s helmet peeled away from her sweaty skin, leaving her hair a tacky mold against her forehead.

“I know.” Mischief twinkled in Evelyn’s eye, the pair of betting men to her back, “Who paid?”

“Varric.”

“Varric!” Evelyn cried out before Cassandra hurriedly hushed her with an uncharacteristic throaty laugh. “That little weasel bet against me?!” If anything she’d guess it would have been the Commander to bet against her if for no other reason than Varric was her friend. Or at least she thought he was.

The girls had known what was happening the minute the crowd had gathered around the pit.  Instead of letting them win, the two decided to make a show of it, still get their practice in, but have some fun while doing it. Every swing and fall a dramatic dance between two excellently skilled warriors.

But most importantly, he had bet on her; a flush rose that had nothing to do with exertion.

* * *

_‘Supply order for the Herald.’_ Later that night she found herself sitting alone, perched as high as she could find. Nights she couldn’t sleep Evelyn had found great comfort in watching her small town sleep. Especially in the chaos her world had become there was nothing more balming on her troubled soul than the blissful _routine_ the nights had become. Standard patrols. The same people pouring out of the Singing Maiden. The same people finding their tents after working far too late into the night. And him. Commander Cullen always making his rounds. Truthfully speaking, she didn’t know when he ever found time to rest; every night he patrolled long after Evelyn had finally succumb to sleep.

Once—she had checked the roster, wondering how the _Commander_ had managed to get patrol. Every. Single. Night. But he wasn’t listed. She had soon come to find he was never listed, and still every night he patrolled. It was comforting.

Without much searching, she found him inspecting a trebuchet on the outside of town. Isn’t that sort of work better suited for daylight hours? Even still, he watched. The winter wind biting at her cheeks and nose. Even after nearly a month here, she hadn’t gotten used to the bitter chill that always seemed to eat away at her. It was—more or less—a blessing when she got away on a mission. She would turn her face to the brilliant sun, letting the warm(er) breeze caress the back of her neck.

One small but influential blessing had been her new gloves.

 Of all the things they had tried to alleviate the pain radiating from her hand, the only thing that made any sort of difference were the gloves he’d given her. Too big, and heavily worn, she’d had to get them reworked from the old leather—with the commander’s permission of course.

_‘When I gave them to you I didn’t really expect them back.’_ Her and Solas had tried for days to find an alternative before he finally tucked her tail and asked.

_‘Solas thinks it has to do with the templar magic.’_ she had blurted out without much thought. He made her nervous, and when she was nervous she said stupid things. _‘I can petition another templar... we have—’_ What Solas had actually—and quite articulately—explained: _‘when a templar ingests Lyrium it becomes a part of his integral composition. Much like the material absorbs sweat, it’s absorbed the Lyrium radiating off his skin.’_ He’d gone on to explain that something about the metabolized Lyrium something, something—diluted—something, something. To be honest, it was hard to focus when Solas tried explaining his long-winded theories. The important part was that it suppressed the magic of her mark. Just enough.

_‘No, keep them.’_

Harritt had reworked the leather better that anyone she’d ever seen. Even the blacksmiths back at home didn’t have but a fraction of his skill. Their work conventionally beautiful: decorated with gold-leaf embroidery, emerald and ruby encrusted—but mostly useless when it came to proper armor.

The repurposed gloves felt like fresh cream silk beneath her fingers, the stitches long and flexible. He’d tried apologizing for not being able to entirely remove the age lines from the leather. _‘if I work it much further I’m afraid you’ll end up with butter in your hands.’_

She’d asked him not to apologize, they were perfect, the leather so fine she could feel the intricate details carved into her family brooch. Truth be told, she liked feeling the cracks and lines that indicated where his hands had worked. Flexing and bending in a way that was so uniquely—him.

In a way it was as if he were always there, caressing her skin, sliding the supple leather over her mark, kissing away the electricity that threatened to claim her entire arm.

But she’d never tell anyone—about the pain or the pleasure.


End file.
